Defiance
by WeAreTomorrow
Summary: "And our boy tribute is… Gale Hawthorne."


Loved the movie, actually. More then I thought I would.

Gale looked good jealous, no?

* * *

**Defiance**

…_because sometimes there's is no way to take it anymore…_

* * *

"_Oh god_," I whisper, voice breaking.

"Gale…" I trail off, speechless, disgusted. What can I say? I can tell from the way his mouth twists that my horror hurts him.

I kiss the puckered, scared skin around his eyes. His beautiful grey eyes, which have taken on a terrible milky white quality, dead to the world, staring at a point slightly left of my forehead.

"Catnip," his voice is thick with tears that he will never be able to cry again.

Ever.

I lose it. I scream, and rant and tear at the grass. "_You'll pay for this_!" I scream at the Capitol. My family, my friends, they will never hear this nor will the other districts.

But President Snow will. And the Gamemakers.

It's for them that I threaten the sky. Let them be afraid, let them know I won't let this go unpunished. I scream until my voice gives way and Gale –_oh Gale, I'm so sorry_- wraps his arms around me.

I kiss his useless eyes and plan my revenge.

XXX

Have you ever been so terrified that the world seems to fades away?

And all that's left is the strangely distant sound of your heart beating triple time to make up for the fact that life, as you know it, is ending—right here, right now. Strange, isn't it? At the 16th reaping of my life I discovered exactly how strange.

It seems so unreal.

Sitting in this room, traveling on a luxury train to my certain death. Not being hungry. I look over at Gale, tightening my grip on his hand. "We're both going to die," I say, "And all I can think about is if we'll have that delicious chocolate mousse again tomorrow."

Gale's lips twitch upward into a smile.

"Whatever else they are, you can't deny they cook well." He admits. Then the joking light fades from his eyes. "I won't kill you, Catnip."

I turn my head so I can look fully into his face. "I know." I hesitate then say, "I could never hurt you either."

How could I? How can I kill my best friend? How can I kill the one and only person I can trust my life with? The life he now has to destroy to save his own.

Gale grimaces as he follows my train of thought, "Right mess we've gotten ourselves into, eh?"

Mess?

I sigh, resting my head against his chest, trying not to imagine it bruised and bleeding and broken and- no. I won't let it happen. I swear to myself I won't. I really, really hope I can keep my promise.

A knock on the door startles me, sends me crashing into Gale's jaw.

"Ow!" He says reproachfully, rubbing his face.

Effie comes flying in, hideous pink wig from the reaping still slightly off-center. She stops, seeing me and Gale strewn across the bed. I roll my eyes as she started shrieking about restraint and propriety and age, not even noticing that we still have our clothes decidedly _on_.

"I love your wig," I lie.

Effie halts mid-word and does a complete turnabout, "Oh yes, they're all the rage this year, you know. And District 12 is really so horribly colorless and so I thought, why not? I now this great dealer, fam- "

I tune Effie out and grin over at Gale as we follow her out the door to dinner. He shrugs as if to say; it's the Capitol, what did you expect?

The dinner is a beautiful masterpiece of smells and tastes.

Lamb dipped in a sauce so sweet I forgo the meat and lick off every droplet. Much to Effie's shame, Gale winks at me before shoveling an entire bowl of a strange orange tinged soup into his mouth with his bare hands.

I laugh hysterically as she turns the same color as her wig and storms out of the room in a huff.

"Happy Hunger Games!" I yell after her, making a point of wiping my hands on the tablecloth as she looks back at us one last time. She gives an unlady-like snort of disgust and disappears out the door.

I can't seem to stop laughing.

I can barely breath and tears start to blur my vision. I can feel Gale's strong, warm arms around me, and I breathe him in. He smells likes our forest, like home, like safety.

"Happy Hunger Games."

My laughter becomes hysterical and wild. I'm going to die, Gale's going to die and then how will our families survive without the extra meat? I can't let Prim starve.

"Happy Hunger Games," my voice sounds distant, as if a stranger is talking.

"Don't give up on us yet," Gale whispers into my ear. "If, _when_, we win they'll never have to worry about going hungry again."

I don't bother mentioning that 'we' won't be doing anything.

* * *

I wake up screaming.

The automatic lights switch on; I flail about in my sheets, becoming hopelessly entangled. Somehow, I manage to fall off the side of the feather soft bed and land on the cold, hard floor.

Where am I? Oh yes, the reaping.

I just sit there, letting the memories of the previous day wash over me. For the most part they're not pleasant and, _surprise_, I don't feel like lingering over them.

I take a nice, long shower to distract me from the future. It works.

Another thing the Capitol does well; showers. Anything you could ever imagine a shower doing, it does and then some.

Damn thing's dangerous though.

Nearly choked me to death with a vile smelling vanilla-mint steam. Just saying, if I had some of that stuff in the arena I'd win in no time.

I grin at the thought and press another dozen buttons.

With a gooey _ploop_ a gallop of shampoo is dripped into my hair. I tilt my head up, searching for the warm water lever when a jet goes off, hitting my eye. I howl in pain, stumbling backward into the control panel.

All hell breaks loose.

Jets from every direction imaginable go off, hitting my body with surprising force, making me yelp.

The foul steam floods the bathroom again, gagging me and stinging my already burning eyes. I blindly hit a switch that sprays a slippery soap onto the ground and I skid helplessly, arms waving desperately trying to keep my balance, then land with a painful thump.

I curse colorfully and tumble out the glass doors onto the bathroom floor.

Groaning in embarrassment—_If a shower can defeat you how are you ever going to survive what's to come?—_I grab a fluffy white towel and cover myself. Not a moment to soon as it turns out.

Not even half a second later, Gale comes hurtling through the bathroom door, which. yeah, I really should've locked, looking not little amount of terrified.

"Katniss, are you okay? I heard yelling in the hallway and I…"

He stops and takes in the scene before him.

Me, face a bright humiliated red, wrapped in a skimpy towel and the still ongoing crises in the shower behind me. The glass wall separating the shower from the rest of the bathroom has steamed up and you can only distantly make out the jets wreaking havoc on the other side.

It looks, well, like something you'd find me in the middle of, honestly.

"Um," He says uncertainly, staring at me, "I'll... wait outside until you've finished up."

Gale swallows thickly, dropping his gaze.

"Yeah, that might be best," I say sourly.

He retreats to the hallway and stands outside my room like a guard, ready at any moment to come rushing back in to save me from the wrath of evil Capital showers.

My hero.

I dry myself off and change into a simple shirt and pants. I leave the shower for some other poor, unfortunate soul to deal with and hurry off to breakfast with Gale. Bless whoever has to clean my bedroom; let's all hope they make it out alive.

Effie and Haymitch are already seated at the breakfast table although it looks to me as if Haymitch would rather be anywhere else. I grin wickedly; he must have a hell of a hangover.

Surprisingly, he looks sober.

He's eating too but I suppose with the food around here that's not too shocking.

Effie glares at us, daring us to eat as we did last night. Gale wiggles his eyebrows questioningly but I give him a warning look. We don't need our own team wanting us dead along with everyone else in the Capitol.

He shrugs and picks up his fork.

A re-play of the reaping is looping on a large-screen television at the head of the table.

It's a beautifully clear thing unlike the ones back home, which we've allowed to waste away. As much as we can anyway, a few weeks before the reapings a 'Surpervisional Squad' come to give us Effie and make sure our square is orderly enough to be shown live.

They always check the televisions are still in working order, we wouldn't want to miss even one tiny little detail now, would we?

My father told me when he was a little boy, a parent of a tribute when insane after his daughter was brutally slaughtered and smashed in the screens. The man was never seen again and his efforts simply lead to bigger, newer video displays.

Gale and I had come in late; they were already showing District 11.

"And our girl tribune is… Rue Malkina."

A dark, delicate-looking girl makes her way to the stage. She looks so much like Prim it makes my heart ache. I almost expect a darker version of myself to throw myself at her and drag her back.

Nobody does.

A beautiful, tall schoolgirl turns away, tears streaming down her face—is this her sister? A sister who loves her enough to cry but not enough to take her place? My lip curls in disgust.

Gale leans over and whispers in my ear, "Not everyone is as strong as you are, Catnip."

I shiver and miss the male tribune's name.

He's a boulder of a boy, a man really, his size making the vulnerability and youth of little Rue all the more apparent. He has this look about him, something dangerous, but as the camera switches back to the commentators I see him give her a small, gentle smile.

Next is District 12.

I force myself not to look away, as Prim's name is called. I watch the crowd part like water before me as I break into a run and catch her arm roughly at the edge of platform stairs.

I force her behind me, shouting, "I volunteer!"

I remember my panicked thoughts, _not Prim! No, they can't have you! Please, take me instead! _Prim clutches at my hand desperately and says in her small, fragile voice that you can barely hear over the angry rumble of the crowd.

"No Katniss, _you can't_-!"

But it's too late.

I'm up on the dais and Prim has been swallowed up by the multitude. Effie giggles, commenting on "what a exciting year this will be" and calls up the male tribune. "And our boy tribune is…"

"Gale Hawthorne," I whisper along with the video-Effie.

The discontented mumbles of the people fall silent.

So silent that you can hear Gale's almost sound-less footsteps as he makes his way toward me.

Instead of standing on the other side of Effie as is tradition, and at this point in the real Effie gives a huff of annoyance, he stands beside me.

Our hands find each other in a silent act of defiance.

We are not the only ones; District 12 joins us in our rebellion. In unison they press their three middle fingers to their lips and hold it out to us. I'm touched—this is the highest honor they can give us.

Silent defiance.

The anthem plays one last time, showing the shocked commentators who shake their heads at us but can find nothing to say. We made them speechless and that in itself is a victory.

The film ends.

Effie relaxes and starts chattering about the day ahead of us.

I try to listen, I really do. Her voice though, is annoyingly high pitched.

This fact hasn't escaped Haymitch either, who winces every time she opens her mouth. In the end he interrupts her half-way through her rant about our new stylists, Cinna and Portia, to say:

"Effie, could you leave the tributes and me alone together for a moment? To, uh, bond?"

It seems a pretty obvious way to get her out of the way, at least to me, but she doesn't notice. Instead she beams and squeals, "That's it, Mitchy! Think positive! Maybe they one of them won't die and you can finally have some company!"

And with that she bounces away. Does she practice this or is saying horrible things at exactly the wrong moment simply a talent of hers?

Gale raises an eyebrow, "Mitchy?"

Haymitch says in a deep, world-weary way. "You have no idea," he says.

"So tell us," challenges Gale.

"Well, it all started at last year when nicknames were 'in' and she-"

"You know that's not what we mean." I say, narrowing my eyes at him.

Anger suddenly floods my veins—this wreck is supposed to be our mentor?

The one that will organize our sponsors and coach our training? The one who will help us evolve a strategy to stay alive? Don't we deserve even a tiny bit of a chance?

"Just because you made it doesn't mean you can abandon the rest of us!" I lash out at him," You're our only chance, dammit! So start acting like it!"

He turns to Gale, looking through me as if I weren't there and remarks off-handedly, "She's a feisty one, ain't she?"

Gale struggles to conceal his smile and I grind my teeth together but remain icily silent. Let's keep the yelling insults at the person who could be your choice between life and death to a minimum, shall we?

Right.

"He's a sober one, ain't he," I say mockingly. Thankfully, Gale intervenes before I can dig my grave any deeper.

"She has a point, Haymitch." He says easily. Not insulting simply pointing out, why don't you try that, Katniss? Think non-aggressive thoughts. Butterflies and rainbows.

Haymitch falls silent as if considering our point, although I know better then to hope for the best.

"Ok," he says after the tension settles like heat in the air, "I'll make a deal y'all a deal."

"You," he looks pointedly at Gale, "seem decent enough. I'll stay sober, sober enough, to guide you through the games but," he pauses, "You have to do exactly what I tell you to do."

We look at each other and nod.

What other choice do we have?

* * *

I step out of the complex that has been both my sanctuary and my prison for the past few days.

The sun momentarily blinds me; I raise my arm to shield my eyes and turn away from the light. Portia arrives with Gale. She looks me up and down approvingly.

"They do look quite the part, no?" She says cryptically.

I notice for the first time that her accent isn't the usual Capitol sort. It's sweeter, with a musical lilt. In fact, she doesn't look the part of a Capitol freak. Her skin is a dark mocha brown, almost black, that looks far too natural.

"Hurry now," she says. "It is almost time."

Cinna appears by her side as if conjured by magic, 'Indeed, right this way."

He leads us through a beautiful, narrow courtyard. Roses of shades that simply can't exist except through grotesque human interference are twisted around the romantic love seats that dot the numerous, secluded little corners.

Quite a few are occupied.

I blush and avert my eyes.

The courtyard opens up into a large set of stables. We approach it, weaving in and out of the crowds already gathered there.

We arrive at the last set of stables, the number '12' stamped into the roof.

It seems to be smaller then some of the other ones. One side of the stall is a mirror and the others are a light, cream-colored wood. Our chariot is waiting for us, black and silver engravings winding across the front looking like metal flames engulfing the carriage.

Our horses are coal-black, different colored silk strands woven into their manes. The one to the right whinnies gently and the other tosses its head, impatient.

Gale steps forward to stroke its nose and I follow suit.

I consider him for the first time. He's wearing a handsome, form-fitting black suit and pants that shimmer like mine do when he moves. Deep purple and blue eye shadow accent his angry brown eyes, making them pop.

In synch, we turn to look in the mirror. Our reflections flicker. They are otherworldly, inhuman. Creatures of the flame.

The horses paw the ground, heads rearing into the air. The reflections smirk at each other, white teeth contrasting their dark allure. Even their slightly hysterical laughter sounds unearthly and unlike us.

Cinna and Portia roughly push us toward the direction of our chariot.

Gratefully, I let Gale help me onboard; I squeeze his hand reassuringly.

He looks terrified.

I can't help but worry something will go wrong, that I'll catch on fire. What would happen then? Would they choose a new contestant? Or would they simply go ahead with the games, one contestant short?

I shudder, it seems a terrible way to die.

Cinna gives us a fleeting thumbs up and off we go.

I realize I haven't let go of Gale's hand. I consider moving away but what would that accomplish? Had we not already established our alliance? Flaunted it even, in the face of those who would see us brutally murder each other?

I don't let go.

* * *

NOTE:

It's been a long time since I looked at this story and though I had fun editing it, it's time to say goodbye.

If anyone is interested in adopting it, please send me a message!


End file.
